


gestures speak louder than my words (can you hear them?)

by authoressjean



Series: the changed future [20]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prequel, Sick!Bilbo, but not in an angsty way, happiness and sappiness in equal doses, holy crap i don't know if there's angst here, it might be implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressjean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre 'to change the course of the future'.</p><p>In Laketown, the company rests and tends to Bilbo, ill from Mirkwood and the cold water escape. Thorin may, perhaps, tend to Bilbo more than the others, which not only leaves Thorin confused, but leaves Bilbo a bit bewildered, too.</p><p>But hopeful. Ever hopeful that, perhaps, Bilbo's not the only one harboring feelings deeper than the small infatuation he had thought it to be.</p><p>It would be easier for them both if one of them would just say something.</p><p>One-shot. Can be read as a stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gestures speak louder than my words (can you hear them?)

**Author's Note:**

> So once upon a time I wrote a prequel to 'to change' and people begged for more. I had a tiny plot idea. But it didn't grow.
> 
> Then my muse got stumped and decided she was going to start on this. Pain in the butt that she is.
> 
> So for all those who wanted a first kiss (you know who you are, you crazy peeps who keep me going) please enjoy.

The first time Bilbo had sneezed, it had been a relief. Agony and pain had taken up residence in his face, and it had been a blessing to relieve some of the pressure building up inside of him.

He’d quickly changed his opinion by the fifth sneeze in a row.

Three days later, and Bilbo couldn’t even remember how many sneezes he’d had thus far. He miserably dabbed at his nose again and slumped forward on the bed until his head hit the mattress. What he wouldn’t have given to take a solid breath of air again. He sniffled and didn’t even bother with the handkerchief that Thorin had somehow found him.

Thorin. Despite all his agony, despite the pain throbbing in his head and his nose and his throat, Bilbo still couldn’t seem to stifle his grin and the curling of his toes.

Never would he have imagined having someone like Thorin by his side. It was still unbelievable, even after all this time later. He’d thought, at first, that perhaps it had been friendship and merely that. Side by side at Beorn’s, speaking with each other freely all the way to Mirkwood.

Then…

He reached up to his breast and found the pin there at his heart. The metal was cool to his touch, but it still warmed him nonetheless. It was a prized gift, that much was obvious: the response from the dwarves had been subdued but full of joy when they’d seen the pin on his vest. This was obviously not just a random, casual thing, then. This had meant something to them, meant something to Thorin. And it left Bilbo warm, so warm, inside.

Or maybe that was the fever talking again. He wouldn’t be surprised.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the door open. He did, however, hear the footsteps crossing the room at a rapid pace, and two hands on him, strong and sure. “Bilbo,” Thorin called urgently, sounding nine types of concerned. Oh, that’s right: because Bilbo still had his head on the mattress, chest on his crossed legs. “Bilbo, are you well?”

He groaned and let Thorin pull him up to sitting. The move made him dizzy, and he found himself clutching at Thorin’s arm for a long moment. “M’all right,” he rasped. His throat still sounded as if he’d been screaming for days. Not exactly at his best. “Just tired.”

“You’d rest easier if you laid back,” Thorin said, some of his worry fading away. He still looked concerned when Bilbo opened his eyes at last. He was wearing a simple blue tunic, hair tucked back behind his shoulders. Eru but he was a vision to behold.

If only Bilbo could just tell him that. But the words still remained locked up tight behind Bilbo’s lips, terrified that this wouldn’t last. For how could it? There was a mountain waiting for Thorin and a Shire waiting for Bilbo.

Wonderful. Now he was getting melancholy.

“Bombur said he brought up broth for you earlier,” Thorin said. He took his usual seat beside Bilbo’s bed, where the others found him more often than not. Ever by Bilbo’s side, ever since he’d collapsed as they’d made their way to their rooms. Hadn’t _that_ been embarrassing. Survived the dungeons, managed to not drown in the river, and then couldn’t even climb two steps before falling into a dead faint.

Oin could go on and on about Bilbo being “skin and bones” and “sick as could be” but honestly, it was more humiliating than anything else.

“Bilbo?”

Right, the broth. “He did, and I ate it,” Bilbo said. Most of it, at least. As wonderful as Bombur had been to make it, the chicken stock had just been a little too greasy for Bilbo’s stomach. He wasn’t quite certain how the plant in the window was enjoying the remnants of the soup, but he was certain it was probably more appreciated there than in Bilbo’s belly.

Thorin narrowed his gaze. “Here,” Bilbo said, and he handed the empty bowl over. “Thank you kindly.”

After a long moment, Thorin took the bowl, spoon sliding around inside. “Since it looks as if your appetite is back, I’m certain you’d appreciate more,” he began, and Bilbo made a face and crossed his arms. Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“You’re a horrible and dreadful person,” Bilbo muttered. “You…you _insufferable_ dwarf.”

“And you’re a stubborn hobbit, the most stubborn being I’ve ever met,” Thorin returned with pinched lips. “You need to eat.”

“It just turns my stomach. I’m trying, I truly am, but what good will it do me if I can’t keep it down?” His stomach rolled, as if to remind him of his troubles, and Bilbo grimaced. “It felt good on my throat, if that helps at all. But tea would do much the same for me.”

“And dry biscuits, if I can find them?” Thorin countered.

“And you call _me_ stubborn,” Bilbo mumbled. “Yes, if you can find them.” He had no doubt that Thorin would’ve paid good coin to buy dry biscuits, just for him, even if their coins were sacred at the moment. The Master of Laketown would probably consider it a debt that they owed him, when they retook Erebor.

But it was still another sign that perhaps, perhaps, this was more than just a small heart’s stirring on Thorin’s part. That perhaps, perhaps, this was growing into something more.

It was terrifying, even as it left Bilbo almost unable to keep the grin from his face.

“Believe me, I will,” Thorin said, confirming Bilbo’s thoughts. He rose from his seat, bowl and spoon in hand, then paused, gazing at Bilbo. No, not at Bilbo so much as the pin on his shirt. “I thought it was on your vest,” he said after a moment.

“It was. But I can’t wear my vest right now. Besides, it’s all but torn to shreds. Most of my things are. I meant to ask for a sewing kit, just some thread and needle. They don’t even need to match the color of my clothes, truly.”

“You’re not doing a thing,” Thorin said firmly. Still, his eyes lingered on the pin, and there was something so soft, so uncertain, almost _shy_ , about him as he moved his gaze to Bilbo’s eyes. He gave a small smile, and Bilbo was helpless not to return it.

So much trouble, he was in _so_ much trouble. And he didn’t really care.

Thorin was almost to the door before he paused. “Are they so destroyed, your things?” he asked.

Bilbo plucked at his shirt, emphasizing how much bigger it was than him. “It’s an extra thing they found hanging around. I look like a young hobbit in their evening gown, ready for bed. It’s ridiculous.” And then he sneezed, wincing as it made his head ache.

When he looked up, Thorin was gazing at him with some inscrutable look. “What?” Bilbo asked miserably, sniffling and wiping at his nose.

“Dori’s looking for things to do,” Thorin finally said. “Would you mind if I took your clothes to him? He’s desperate to patch things up, and he does a good job of it.”

Actually, that would be nice. “If he wouldn’t mind,” Bilbo said, half as thanks, half as a warning for Thorin to not go throw his things on top of Dori and tell him to “do it.”

“Believe me, his brothers will thank you,” Thorin said. He quickly stepped over to the chair where someone had neatly folded his all but ruined clothes, then, after keeping them in his free hand, nudged his way out of the door. He gave Bilbo one last smile before he left, though, and it was just Bilbo left alone with his aching head and his tumbling heart.

“Behave, you,” he muttered at the offending organ in his chest, but all he saw was the pin on his breast. He heaved a sigh and began to cough instead. When it subsided, he was left to stare dizzily at the wall in front of him until he finally leaned over again with a groan. It wasn’t comfortable on his back, but his head thanked him for the mattress.

He thought he fell asleep that way, but when he woke up, he was laid back upon the pillow the right side up. There beside the bed was a tea cup, herbs, and a kettle, still steaming. And right beside it was a plate of dry biscuits.

He couldn’t have stopped his wide grin if he’d tried, even as his heart fluttered and he felt like a tween.

 

When Oin stepped out from Bilbo’s room later that evening, Thorin’s stomach sank somewhere around his knees. “How bad?” he asked immediately.

“Could use some snow,” the healer admitted. Dwalin pushed himself from his chair the same time Bofur did, and the two headed outside to retrieve what they could. Thorin headed straight up the stairs in the meanwhile, heart pounding. Bilbo had been well earlier, had even eaten two of the biscuits Thorin had found for him. As far as he knew, Bilbo should’ve been getting better, not worse.

“It’s not that bad, wipe that look from your face,” Balin said, coming out from behind Oin. “He’s just a wee bit flushed, that’s all. He’ll be well soon enough.”

“Aye, nothing you can do about it,” Oin said firmly. “Just need the snow to help bring his fever down. Fevers always get worse in the dark hours between sunset and sunrise.”

That didn’t make Thorin feel any better. “I can…help cool him down,” he offered.

“Too many hands make it more difficult,” Oin insisted. “You’re fine, laddie.”

Thorin pursed his lips. “I could help grind herbs for healing, then.”

“I actually really don’t need the help at the moment-“

“Though I’m certain Bilbo would appreciate the company,” Balin said suddenly, and when Oin frowned, Balin nudged him not so gently in the side. “Wouldn’t he?”

Oin’s eyes widened in understanding and Thorin hated himself, just a little, for being so obvious. It wasn’t that everyone didn’t already know how he felt for Bilbo, except Bilbo himself, it seemed. It was just…demeaning to have it aired so obviously, as if he were a young lad unable to keep his emotions in check.

“I’m certain Bilbo would welcome the company,” Oin said, however, and Thorin couldn’t have kept from the door any more if he tried.

It gave him time to not think about the feelings within him, the way his heart tightened at the thought of Bilbo in danger. Of how much he cared for the hobbit, who had become more than a friend to him. Who had become something so…so treasured. So beloved. Yet he didn’t even know if Bilbo felt the same depth of emotion for him.

 _He has to feel something,_ he scolded himself. _He would not have taken the pin so lightly if he did not._ It was obvious that the gift was prized by Bilbo. He’d even moved it to his current sick gown, refusing to part with it.

Thorin felt ridiculous all the same. Still, it was easier to breathe when he found Bilbo swaddled amongst pillows and quilts alike, bleary eyes blinking in the room. The fire was roaring in the hearth, and there were multiple candles everywhere, keeping the room well lit.

It made it all that much more obvious when Bilbo’s head turned and he found Thorin stepping inside. His smile broadened into something loose and silly. “You gave him something…?” Thorin asked over his shoulder.

“Somethin’ that helps with fevers and pain,” Oin said, before he admitted, “I may have misjudged the dosage. I’m not exactly well versed on medicine when it comes to hobbits.”

Between whatever Oin had given him and the fever, Bilbo looked fairly out of it. He still managed to give a loopy grin at Thorin when he came closer. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, his words slurring only a little.

Despite the true danger of the fever, Thorin felt a smile pulling at his own lips. “Hello,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Bilbo slowly began to frown, peering at Thorin as if he had something on his face. “What?” Thorin asked.

“Did you cut your hair?” he asked. “Seems shorter than earlier. That’s a right shame, you shouldn’t cut your hair, d’you know why?”

“Because it is seen as shameful or as an act of grieving by my people?” Thorin replied. Behind him, Balin and Oin were coming back inside, and Dwalin and Bofur had armfuls of snow. Oin began directing them to drop the snow into buckets, and Thorin was so focused on them that he almost missed Bilbo’s response.

“ _No_ , silly, because it’s beautiful.”

Thorin blinked. “What?” he asked after a moment.

Bilbo smiled radiantly at him. “You’ve got the…the most _beautiful_ hair. Pretty as can be. Makes me want to braid it.”

The room fell silent, and Thorin swallowed hard. “Does he know-“ Dwalin began, only for Balin to shush him.

No, Bilbo didn’t know the significance of asking to braid someone’s hair. He knew about the braids, knew they were done by family members or spouses. Or intendeds. But he couldn’t possibly know what it meant to ask to braid it.

“Would you let me braid it?” Bilbo asked, wide eyes fully taken by the fever, and Thorin cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I think we need snow,” he managed. After a moment, a wet rag containing snow was dumped in his hand, and Thorin quickly began brushing it over Bilbo’s brow. Bilbo gave a sigh of relief and let his eyes flutter shut.

It was a relief on Thorin’s end, too. His mind was spinning in circles. He’d barely begun sorting out his own thoughts, these emotions that trembled within him whenever he thought of his friend, his hobbit. But to think of braids meant to think of Bilbo staying by his side after Erebor was reclaimed. A husband, with a marriage braid behind his tipped ear. A bead that Thorin had made, oh Mahal, he was thinking about _beads_ and _braids_. He wasn’t quite certain he was ready for that.

But oh. Oh, how he wanted to be. It felt as if he was the one fevered now, and not Bilbo.

Dwalin began cussing about the cold snow, bringing him back to the present. He continued dabbing Bilbo’s brow and down his neck, careful to not burn him with the cold. Bilbo’s cheeks were red, whether from the fever or the cold, Thorin didn’t know. It wasn’t a good look for him, though, and Thorin felt his insides twist with worry.

Then Bilbo opened his eyes again, and when he smiled, Thorin fought to give him one in return. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Your eyes sparkle,” Bilbo whispered, and Thorin felt his cheeks burn. Dwalin snickered somewhere in the corner, and Oin gave a long-suffering sigh.

“It’s the fever talkin’, Dwalin. Leave him be.”

“No, no, I mean it,” Bilbo said earnestly, grasping Thorin’s arm and pulling him in closer. Thorin could see the fever in his eyes, this close, the glazed look about him. Still, when he smiled at Thorin, it was a genuine Bilbo smile. “Your eyes are like stars. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“You have, just now,” Thorin said, his worry warring with his amusement. Bilbo was hot beneath him, like an inferno, and there could be real danger if his fever didn’t abate. Oin didn’t seem particularly worried at the moment, however, so Thorin would have to trust in the healer’s judgment.

“Good,” Bilbo said firmly, then let his eyes drift shut again. “Such beautiful eyes. I could stare at them forever.”

“Hush,” Thorin heard Balin said in a stern manner, and Bofur and Dwalin still chuckled. Thorin rolled his eyes – his _beautiful_ eyes, according to Bilbo, and Mahal, he wasn’t certain how much more blushing his face could take – and continued to try and fight the fever back.

Thankfully, Bilbo seemed to drift off, after that. His hand closest to Thorin was left open, palm facing up, as if waiting to be held. Thorin swallowed and carefully let his hand wrap around it. So small, so breakable. What kind of life would they have together, if Thorin could beg Bilbo to stay? They were so different, so very different. And all Thorin would have to offer the hobbit was himself. Himself and the kingdom of Erebor.

He would get it back. And he would give Bilbo everything he deserved.

When the snow was all but melted, and Oin insisted that Bilbo be left to rest, Thorin was the last to go. He finally managed to release Bilbo’s hand, setting it down by his other hand. A quick search found his free hand resting over the pin on his breast. Thorin stared at it for a long, silent moment.

Then he left and headed downstairs, determined to relieve Dori of some clothing he’d only just handed him earlier.

 

It was three days later that Bilbo was finally, _finally_ , let out of the room he’d been staying in for nearly a week. The fever had raged on for some time, long enough for Bilbo to apparently say some absolutely amazing – and by amazing he meant _terrible_ – things to Thorin. Things that still had Dwalin grinning at him and Bofur snickering before plastering an innocent look about his face. Which meant that Bilbo had done as he typically did when feverish and loopy: he said very personal things he usually meant to keep to himself.

At least Thorin was still speaking to him and wasn’t teasing him, as even Balin kept trying to do. The worst part was that no one would actually tell him just what it was he’d said.

Sweet Eru, what if he’d gone off and told Thorin exactly how he felt? What if he’d told him how dear Thorin was to him? That wasn’t supposed to be told by a fever, that was something that should’ve been from sober, alert lips and a clear mind.

He supposed the others would happily tell him what he’d said, when he left the room. Oh well: he’d have to face them eventually. Better now than later.

He was out of bed and headed to get a dressing gown – still hadn’t gotten his clothes back from Dori yet – when the door opened, and Thorin stepped in. “I’m not overexerting,” Bilbo swore, tying the belt on the gown. “I just can’t stand these four walls anymore. I need to get out.”

“I thought as much.”

Bilbo frowned at him suspiciously. “And?” he finally asked when Thorin said nothing further.

In answer, Thorin offered forward a folded bundle of clothes. “Oh thank Eru,” Bilbo breathed, hurrying over to take the clothes. “Give Dori my utter gratitude for mending them.” Actually, looking at them and feeling them, these didn’t just feel mended. These felt…new.

With another frown Bilbo set the bundle down on the bed and pulled them out. The shirt was new, and the trousers and the vest were both mended with new fabrics. The jacket was his, but pristine, almost like new. All the torn bits were replaced and it was soft and beautiful. With a bewildered gaze Bilbo turned to Thorin.

Thorin coughed and suddenly looked as stern as he had the first part of their journey. “I thought you might prefer new things. Your old clothes, save for the jacket, were all but completely lost. I had them mend your coat as best as they could.” He moved his hands behind his back, and Bilbo realized he wasn’t cross, he was _nervous_. He was nervous about Bilbo’s reaction.

“As best they could?” Bilbo sputtered, before he let his surprised joy rise to the surface. “Thorin, they look amazing! I can’t, I just can’t believe you went to all this trouble for me.” A sudden fear gripped him, and his smile dropped. “Thorin, how much did this cost?” Every coin counted, especially here in a place where they feared what the Master would do or rather, what he would demand of them for his ‘generosity’. And if Thorin was spending his coin on Bilbo…

“No, no, you need not worry,” Thorin said rapidly, his tension fading in the face of Bilbo’s distress. He hurried to Bilbo’s side and without thinking rested both hands on his shoulders. “It went to an excellent tailor in dire need of coin who was open to requests.”

With each word Bilbo relaxed, hyper aware of Thorin’s hands on his shoulders, but his last words made him confused. “Requests?”

To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin went a little red about the face. “I…may have made some assumptions,” he admitted quietly. “You spoke while…while fevered. Forgive me if I stepped too far.”

He pointed to the jacket, and Bilbo could see it now: the gold thread woven around the bottom in a neat and concise pattern. It looked a great deal like the pattern on Thorin’s own clothing. “It is the symbol for the Line of Durin,” Thorin continued, his voice still so low that Bilbo almost had to strain to hear him. “I wanted to share it. With you.”

First the pin, and now this. And all Bilbo had given him were fevered words.

With a quick toss the jacket was back on the bed and Bilbo had his arms wrapped tightly around Thorin’s neck. If Thorin so much as straightened, Bilbo’s feet would be off the floor. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thorin, _thank you_.” That…that could warrant a quick kiss. He’d already spoken certain things in his fevered state, then, and Thorin had returned his words with an offering of his own, which meant he wouldn’t be too out of line for placing a kiss on Thorin’s cheek. Just enough to tell him…tell him how he really felt. He pulled back, just enough, and turned his head.

It happened in a swift instant. Thorin had turned as well to speak to Bilbo, and Bilbo’s kiss went to the corner of Thorin’s mouth. They both froze, Bilbo’s breaths probably hot on Thorin’s face. His heart seemed to pound loud enough that Bilbo wasn’t certain how Thorin couldn’t hear it. Thorin didn’t move, and Bilbo didn’t dare.

Then, a small movement. Just enough for Thorin’s nose to brush against Bilbo’s. It was so small a movement that it absolutely had to be deliberate. Bilbo let out a shuddered exhale and felt Thorin’s arms tighten just a little around him.

Maybe he didn’t need to say anything. Maybe it didn’t matter if he’d spoken truths while fevered. Maybe…maybe it was just about him and Thorin and this precious thing between them that felt so fragile but so durable at the same time. Maybe this wasn’t a little fling but the real deal, something beyond their casual brushes and small gestures, something like-

Bilbo ducked his head around a pressed a firm kiss to Thorin’s cheek. “Thank you,” he said, his face warm and he hoped he could blame it on the fever that was no longer with him.

Thorin seemed to be having difficulty finding his own voice. “I…did not want to overstep my boundaries,” he finally managed. “I simply wanted you to know how much you mean to me. Gifting you with the threads of my family was appropriate for that.”

Oh, Bilbo had no doubt about how important it was that he bore the threads of Thorin’s line. He had a feeling it meant as much as Bilbo’s kiss.

He couldn’t help it: his smile broadened until he thought it would crack his face in two. “I love it,” he said. “I absolutely love it, Thorin.”

Thorin gave a short nod, then abruptly left. He didn’t glance back at Bilbo as he left, and Bilbo could only gaze down at the clothes that said more than Thorin had just now. How much he was adored, how much he was…

He clutched the jacket to him and refused to acknowledge the word building in his heart.

 _Loved_.

 

Out in the hallway, Thorin stood outside Bilbo’s door, silent and still. He raised a hand to his lips, not where Bilbo had intentionally kissed him, but where Bilbo’s lips had touched his. Just in the corner, just a light press.

It burned now, in his memory, and Thorin closed his eyes and let the smile spread across his face.

He would get to Erebor, he would find the Arkenstone, his right to rule. And he would give Bilbo the world.

He let his fingers trace over the spot for a minute more, and then he stepped away, hope rising in his breast for the first time in too long that they _could_ take back the mountain, that perhaps, _perhaps_ , he could rule in Erebor with a hobbit by his side.

That this warm feeling in his breast wasn’t just his but theirs and might be theirs for days and weeks and months, years, to come.

_Finis_

 


End file.
